Page 1 of The Rest is History

Elodie

T he guy sitting across the table is confusing the hell out of me.

Historians have a reputation for being… well, crusty.

Harsh, but fair.

The History Department at uni was easily identifiable by the professors who populated its poky offices.

Tweed jackets that had seen better days.

Synthetic trousers that, one suspected, boasted elasticated waistbands.

Too-short trouser legs exposing aggressively patterned socks in muddy colours.

Even the occasional hairstyle inspired by Richard III. (No. I’m not exaggerating.)

Which is why I’ve always made an effort to look bright. Modern. Fashionable.

Un-crusty, if you like.

And which makes this guy a bit of a conundrum.

Because even though he’s wearing a somewhat rumpled linen jacket over a linen shirt, the overall ensemble is more off-duty hedge fund manager than festering academic. Nor does the chunk of metal on his left wrist scream underpaid teacher.

Nor does his tanned, healthy glow, for that matter.

Although, to give him credit, he does emanate intense please fuck off and leave me to my tea and PhD research vibes. So far, so on-trend for a Head of History.

None of the above is what’s freaking me out the most. Making me shift continuously in my chair, clear my throat unnecessarily and abandon my verbal syntax abilities.

No, sir.

The most uncomfortable part of this little interaction is the way his expression is jumping between outright hostility—like I’m wasting his time interviewing for a job I’m excellently qualified to do—and something.

Recognition, maybe?

Fascination?

Not the positive type of fascination. More like I’m a small creature he’s examining under his microscope and is flummoxed by. Can’t quite place.

Like I’m making him rethink his assumptions.

Like there’s an aha moment loitering at the edge of his consciousness, and if he focuses hard enough, it’ll come to him in a flash of inspiration.

Like he’s met me before , but in a previous life .

Whatever it is, it’s creeping me out a bit.

Or, at least, his manner would creep me out if he was less attractive.

If I’m honest, it’s not so much creepy as…

unsettling. I suspect it’s his pissed-off intensity that’s causing the aforementioned dry throat and shifting and underwhelming sentence structure.

I re-cross my legs—a move that causes his eyes to dart to my modestly fabric-covered knees in disbelief, like I’ve committed an unforgivable social faux-pas or gone full Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct —and take a careful sip of my water.

Because I wouldn’t be surprised if Intense Hedge Fund Guy’s laser eyes had the power to upend my plastic cup and tip the contents over my lap.

His eyes flick back to the CV in his hand and he shakes the piece of paper out impatiently.

He has nice hands (an observation that irritates me).

They’re tanned, with a smattering of hair that’s a deep enough shade of gold to suggest that the sun has lightened it from a naturally darker shade. Long, lean fingers.

‘Eight years’ experience.’ His tone is a huff.

I know people like this, who act as if the mere presence of all other humans is an inconvenience.

His students must loathe him. Unless, like me, they have an irrational and deeply inconvenient genetic flaw that means they find obnoxious, arrogant drawls to be the teeniest bit of a turn-on.

Dammit.

‘Yes.’ I mean, what else am I supposed to say to that statement of fact?

‘In the state sector.’

He says state like it’s a dirty word. My eyes narrow.

‘Correct.’

‘You’ll find Hampton Park very different.’ He raises his irritatingly shapely eyebrows in a challenge.

No shit, Sherlock. I don’t grace his statement with a reply. His interview technique is rubbish . I’m tired of responding to non-questions. Instead, I hold eye contact and wait for him to tire of stating facts. He probably expects me to be intimidated. To roll over.

Not happening, pal.

He presses on. Elodie: one. Inquisitor General: nil.

‘You’ll find we dive much more deeply into our topics than the national curriculum allows state schools to do. Will that be a problem?’

Would you look at that? A real, live question. I knew he could do it. Closed-ended, but we all have to start somewhere.

‘I don’t see why it would be. It’s actually one of the reasons I’m excited to experience teaching at a private school.’

‘You feel confident you have the knowledge to accommodate classroom exploration of the subject matter at hand beyond the required syllabus?’

Jesus Christ.

‘Of course. I’d consider it a welcome opportunity to read more deeply around the various periods.

You have a lot more freedom on that front than state schools do.

My area of expertise is actually sixteenth-and-seventeenth century British history—the Tudors and early Stuarts, really—so I’m particularly qualified to lead on that period, and?—’

He butts right in, and he actually holds his hand up , like I’m in danger of vaulting over the desk between us to make my case. ‘I take care of that period around here, thank you.’

What the actual fuck?

Possessive, much?

I have to focus hard to stop my mouth from curling up into an amused smile. Snark is about as unhelpful right now as it is tempting, because I need this job.

‘Okay—understood, Mr Vaughan?—’

‘Charlie.’

‘Charlie.’ My cheeks warm a little. For God’s sake. Get it together, Elodie. ‘So, what periods do you require help with, exactly?’

‘All. The lower years will cover everything from Ancient Egypt through to the Cold War, at a superficial level, obviously. The GCSE syllabus is fairly broad. And I teach the Sixteenth Century History A Level classes for both Lower and Upper Sixth, but we require someone to take the Nineteenth Century class.’

The nineteenth century.

Kill me now.

I’ve focused on early modern history my whole academic career. It was the age of personal monarchy, of larger than life characters imposing their personality quirks on everything from culture to law. It was messy and irrational and can’t-make-it-up crazy.

The nineteenth century, by contrast, was a mish-mash of pale, male and stale government institutions and dominated by economic history—the Corn Laws and, of course, the Industrial Revolution.

All super-important and, in my opinion, deathly boring.

But did I mention I need this job?

‘Right. I understand.’

‘Miss Nolan, the teacher whose maternity leave you would be covering, will make her A Level class notes available to you.’

He says it with a gracious incline of his head, in the manner of an aristocrat bestowing great largesse upon some wretched, toothless peasant. Still, I can’t deny it’s a huge relief to hear. I hope Miss Nolan has good notes.

‘That sounds wonderful.’ I force myself to perk up.

To ingratiate myself to this pompous arse.

Because this really is the job of dreams for me right now, for all manner of personal reasons which I have no intention of disclosing to Mr The-Tudors-Are-All-Mine.

‘Honestly, I’m delighted to get stuck in and teach any period that’s required. ’

He eyes me suspiciously, as if perkiness is distasteful and phony.

Judging me by his own standards, I assume.

‘Why do you intend to leave’—he consults my CV—‘St Michael’s ?’

‘My personal circumstances require me to be in this part of Surrey for the next year or so.’ That’s all I’m willing to say, but he looks at me like he requires more information, so I throw him another breadcrumb. ‘It’s a family thing.’

‘I see. And will this quote unquote family thing detract from your ability to focus on the job at hand?’

He rakes a hand through thick, dark hair as he does, and I’m incensed and turned on in equal parts. Damn my regressive, anti-feminist libido. Show me a good-looking guy with piercing blue eyes and floppy dark hair, and I’m a puddle on the floor.

It’s infuriating and ridiculous.

I totally blame Pierce Brosnan for hard-wiring me from an early age.

Though where the attraction to arrogant arseholes comes in, I’m less clear. Probably something I should get therapy for.

Luckily for me, my need for this job and my desire to show him his dickish attitude doesn’t intimidate me work in my favour. I cross my legs again, just to piss him off, even though the skirt of my dress falls to at least mid-calf.

‘Of course it won’t.’ I keep my voice steady. ‘It just means I need to be in the area. I’m completely focused on being present for my students and my colleagues. I really am excited about the opportunity to teach at a school like Hampton Park, Charlie.’

There it is again. That tiny frisson when I say his name. His blue eyes widen a fraction, like he can’t believe I had the nerve to call his bluff and say it.

‘Glad to hear it,’ he mutters. From his tone, I could be forgiven for thinking he’s disappointed that I haven’t voiced the probability of being a hot mess.

‘I’d imagine a school like Hampton Park would be a big culture shock after an inner-city comprehensive,’ he continues.

Oh, please. I’m pretty sure he’s suggesting I’ll be out of my depth.

If anything, it’s the opposite. A guy like this, in a place like this, has no clue what it’s like to teach kids who have no hope.

No role models. And certainly no real advocates.

His pupils are probably over-privileged, entitled little shits whose parents complain if the salmon at lunch isn’t of the wild Alaskan variety.

Put it this way. I’d wipe the floor with this dude at St Michael’s. He wouldn’t last five minutes. And I’m confident I can teach these posh kids in my sleep.